could get so near without being seen. As we drew towards it, I saw that fires had been built along a low ridge. Below them, a hundred other lights pierced the darkness. It might have been a fancy but I thought I could hear the sound of men cheering. Warbeck drew his horse to a stand and jumped down, sinking to his shins in the snow. As my own pack mule teetered to a stop, Warbeck approached with surprising caution, considering how tightly I was bound. I managed a smirk.
‘You have to ride in a free man, Falkland. If there’s a rumour among the common soldiery of what you truly are then you might not come out of here very well. I shan’t weep, but Cromwell has a purpose for you and would not be best pleased.’
‘I thought half the New Model were royalists you’ve turned,’ I said.
Warbeck didn’t answer. He took hold of my hands and teased at the knot. His fingers were numb in the cold and it seemed to take forever to untie me. ‘Are you ready?’
I looked over his head at the fires. Now that my eyes were accustomed to the land, I saw the spire of a church and the outline of rooftops standing underneath it. ‘I’m ready.’
‘Then get off the mule.’
I threw him a curious look.
‘You can’t ride in there looking like that,’ he scoffed. Then, with a certain hint of disdain in his voice, ‘Take the horse, Falkland. I’ll be right behind.’
The camp began long before we reached the outskirts of Crediton itself. There were tents as I had seen in countless other winter billets – but there were wooden huts as well, things hastily erected and then extended out with annexes of timber and cloth. Snow grew in tall banks around the constructions and it looked as if some were miniature palaces of ice. And the size of it! This was more than a camp. This, I knew long before we reached the border fires, was much more than an army.
A single man was keeping watch over the fires but apart from him I saw nobody. We came through the border like ghostly horsemen. No one noticed us or cried out. No one saw us, yet still I had the terrible feeling we were being watched. It had been with me since we came out of the valley and now it got worse. Sounds came from among the huts and tents, snores here and there, a rattle of laughter, the muffled talk of soldiers that’s much the same everywhere and with every army. Except here there was a difference. Now and then, though the snow muted everything, I thought I picked out a strident voice reading what could have been a passage from the Bible. There was something missing. Singing. No one was singing.
Abruptly, close enough to startle Warbeck’s horse, a door slammed from one of the huts and a man came stumbling out, hurriedly pulling down his breeches and muttering at the cold. He was so intent on the urgency of relieving himself that he didn’t see us right away, though we were no more than a dozen paces short. When he did, I’ve never seen a man’s face change so utterly. He stared at us, bewildered at first to see two men riding in in the dark; and then a moment later his jaw dropped and his eyes bulged and his demeanour changed to an expression of an abject fear more profound than any I ever saw, even in the condemned of Newgate. He turned and opened the door and flung himself inside, tugging at his breeches as he did. As we passed I heard him speak in an anguished cry: He’s here . We passed the hut and I looked back and saw the door ajar once more and pairs of eyes peering through the opening, though they withdrew quickly enough when I met them. The door slammed shut again but they knew I’d seen them.
‘What was that about?’ I asked Warbeck but he seemed as bemused as I. One thing had been clear to me, though. When that man’s face had turned to fear, he’d been looking directly at me. He’d barely noticed Warbeck at all. I wondered if we’d once faced each other in battle. Had I ever been face to face with my enemies and warranted such terror? I found I
‘You have to ride in a free man, Falkland. If there’s a rumour among the common soldiery of what you truly are then you might not come out of here very well. I shan’t weep, but Cromwell has a purpose for you and would not be best pleased.’
‘I thought half the New Model were royalists you’ve turned,’ I said.
Warbeck didn’t answer. He took hold of my hands and teased at the knot. His fingers were numb in the cold and it seemed to take forever to untie me. ‘Are you ready?’
I looked over his head at the fires. Now that my eyes were accustomed to the land, I saw the spire of a church and the outline of rooftops standing underneath it. ‘I’m ready.’
‘Then get off the mule.’
I threw him a curious look.
‘You can’t ride in there looking like that,’ he scoffed. Then, with a certain hint of disdain in his voice, ‘Take the horse, Falkland. I’ll be right behind.’
The camp began long before we reached the outskirts of Crediton itself. There were tents as I had seen in countless other winter billets – but there were wooden huts as well, things hastily erected and then extended out with annexes of timber and cloth. Snow grew in tall banks around the constructions and it looked as if some were miniature palaces of ice. And the size of it! This was more than a camp. This, I knew long before we reached the border fires, was much more than an army.
A single man was keeping watch over the fires but apart from him I saw nobody. We came through the border like ghostly horsemen. No one noticed us or cried out. No one saw us, yet still I had the terrible feeling we were being watched. It had been with me since we came out of the valley and now it got worse. Sounds came from among the huts and tents, snores here and there, a rattle of laughter, the muffled talk of soldiers that’s much the same everywhere and with every army. Except here there was a difference. Now and then, though the snow muted everything, I thought I picked out a strident voice reading what could have been a passage from the Bible. There was something missing. Singing. No one was singing.
Abruptly, close enough to startle Warbeck’s horse, a door slammed from one of the huts and a man came stumbling out, hurriedly pulling down his breeches and muttering at the cold. He was so intent on the urgency of relieving himself that he didn’t see us right away, though we were no more than a dozen paces short. When he did, I’ve never seen a man’s face change so utterly. He stared at us, bewildered at first to see two men riding in in the dark; and then a moment later his jaw dropped and his eyes bulged and his demeanour changed to an expression of an abject fear more profound than any I ever saw, even in the condemned of Newgate. He turned and opened the door and flung himself inside, tugging at his breeches as he did. As we passed I heard him speak in an anguished cry: He’s here . We passed the hut and I looked back and saw the door ajar once more and pairs of eyes peering through the opening, though they withdrew quickly enough when I met them. The door slammed shut again but they knew I’d seen them.
‘What was that about?’ I asked Warbeck but he seemed as bemused as I. One thing had been clear to me, though. When that man’s face had turned to fear, he’d been looking directly at me. He’d barely noticed Warbeck at all. I wondered if we’d once faced each other in battle. Had I ever been face to face with my enemies and warranted such terror? I found I
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